


Whisky and Neon Blue Jeans

by dirkygoodness



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Five doesn't know how to handle not being in top condition, Gen, I have no idea where this fits in the timeline, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sick Character, Sometimes you just need some forced TLC, Timeline What Timeline, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-07 09:53:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17958278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirkygoodness/pseuds/dirkygoodness
Summary: When you're the only person left in a world that's trying to kill you, you can't afford to get sick.You either get back up and start moving again or you never get back up at all.





	Whisky and Neon Blue Jeans

**Author's Note:**

> idk im bad at titles
> 
> ACK for everyone who commented on my last fic or this one i want to apologize for not responding much i get anxious and keep freaking out dhfg

When you're the only person left in a world that's trying to kill you, you can't afford to get sick. You can't afford to be in pain or to take time to heal. You either get back up and start moving again or you never get back up at all. 

Working for the Commission he didn't have much of a choice, either. They didn't really give you free time. Learning to ignore this stuff became second nature by the time he was seventeen. He got good at it when he turned twenty five. 

He doesn't know any other way to handle it, at this point.

So, instead of listening to what his body is trying to tell him, Five ignores it. He ignores the dizziness when he stands or moves too quickly, ignores the way he's too cold constantly, the rolling in his stomach if he moves too much or eats or smells food. He medicates with rum and vodka, and pretends he's fine.

It's not a problem.

Until it is.

Five is sitting at the bar, nursing his third glass of whatever had been out and was readily available. With each passing glass he feels like he can more easily chock the nausea up to being drunk. He's almost there already - his tolerance nowhere near what it used to be, his body too young and  _ new.  _

The liquor is actually making his nausea worse, with an added side effect of a headache for no reason other than that the universe hates him. He doesn't know what time it is, or how long he'd been sitting here, but if he had to guess he'd say somewhere near noon. Maybe. 

Everyone left earlier, except for Luther who was upstairs going through boxes of Dad's old stuff. Organizing or something. Five's not entirely sure, to be honest. He didn't really care. 

He is alone to drink in peace. He'd left Dolores upstairs, not wanting her to see him as drunk as he was planning on getting, didn’t want to upset her unnecessarily. Five wonders, absently as he slides his finger in a circle around the brim of his glass, if he could manage to give himself alcohol poisoning. 

He’s almost positive he’d given himself it before, a few times, when he’d still been too young and overexcited at finding a new stash of liquor. But he’d managed to figure out what he could handle, safely, so he didn’t end up nearly killing himself everytime he drank. 

But, this is a new body. New tolerance. He doesn’t even know if he can  _ get  _ to that point without passing out first. Is his body too weak to alcohol that it doesn’t matter? Could he get alcohol poisoning anyway? Why does his stomach have to hurt so bad?

Five glares down at the glass, suddenly. He shouldn't have used liquor to numb his nausea. He knows it just makes it worse (he’s done it enough times). But it's always been his go to cure-all, so he hadn't really thought about it, if he's honest. He pushes the half-empty glass away from himself with a snarl of disgust, suddenly angry. 

At the drink, at himself, at his stomach, the world. Part of him just wants to go lie down and sleep, wrap himself up in as many blankets as he could. But he can’t do that. He needs to stay sharp, focused. In case anything happens.  _ What’s gonna happen?  _ He thinks, tapping his fingers against the wooden surface beneath him.  _ The apocalypse is over. _

_ Is it? _

_ There’s still other threats.  _

He can’t let his guard down.

Five hears the door in the foyer give a screech as it swings open, and he casts a glance over his shoulder. From where he’s sitting he can't see anything, so he just waits until whoever it is comes into the room after the door shuts. 

It's Klaus who comes strutting in, with Diego following shortly after. Diego looks annoyed, though, when does he not. Klaus has a grin far too like the cat who caught the canary for Five's comfort, with a particularly gaudy wardrobe today. He’s got an almost black-blue cropped tank top on, an over the top, fluffy white coat, and to top it all of the ugliest pants Five has ever seen in his entire life. 

They’re either leather or rubber, both thoughts as haunting as the other, teal bright enough to put the sun to shame. It’s awful. His stomach hurts. Five turns back to his discarded drink instead of having to look at Klaus’ neon, hideous, skin tight pants anymore. They were making his headache ten times worse already, and he’s barely even glanced at them.  

“It’s not  _ my  _ fault you don’t have a sense of humor, Diego,” Klaus coos, giggles, and then - oh,  _ joy  _ of joys! - he sits down on the stool right next to Five’s own. If he were a cartoon character, a vein would be bulging from his forehead and his eye would be twitching, he’s sure of it. “You’ve just gotta, like, lighten up a little.”

“I  _ have  _ a sense of humor!” Diego fires back, and Five can feel him pacing like a feral animal behind him. It’s infuriating. “It’s just not funny to grab the steering wheel and  _ jerk it  _ while I’m  _ driving!”  _ Klaus scoffs and leans back in on the stool, his gangly legs bumping Five in the shoulder as he crosses them. 

“You were not  _ driving,  _ you were parking. You’re the one who doesn’t know how to stay in the lines.” 

_ “You can’t even drive!”  _

There’s a feeling you get, before you throw up. 

Your stomach drops and something thick swells in the back of your throat like you’ve just swallowed a golf ball. If you throw up enough it’s pretty noticeable, a telltale sign of your impending doom. Five’s just drunk enough he barely registers it, in the back of his mind, and it takes far longer than it should for him to focus on the thought and process it. 

When he does manage to, it’s too little, too late, and he only just manages to spin himself clear of Klaus before he empties the contents of his stomach -  _ liquor, toast, aspirin  _ \- over the polished wood floors. He grabs onto the nearest thing he can to keep himself from going flying off the stool and into his own vomit, and ends up holding onto Klaus’ knee like his life was depending on it. 

Five wraps his other hand around his stomach as it clenches painfully, his eyes stinging as he tries to suck in air between gags. There’s a symphony of groans from Diego and Klaus, and Five can feel Klaus fighting the urge to jerk away from him for a moment. 

Then there’s a hand on his back, rubbing in what Klaus probably thinks is  _ soothing  _ but it just makes Five want to sock him in the jaw as hard as he can. He settles for feebly trying to swat Klaus’ hand away.

“Ho-o-oly shit, how drunk are you?” Klaus laughs, but Five can’t detect any actual humor in his words, which is uncharacteristic for him, for starters. Not to mention the fact that he’s still holding onto Five, rubbing his hand against his back. 

It’s gentle. It’s  _ caring.  _

He  _ hates _ it. 

Five squeezes his eyes shut and forces down another, futile gag - there’s nothing  _ left  _ in his stomach to throw up, anymore  - before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He pushes himself off the stool, if only to get away from the  _ too-much  _ feeling of Klaus’ hand against his back, and stumbles over his own throw-up as he makes for the couch. 

He doesn’t get very far, this time Diego stepping in and grabbing him by the shoulder. Five pointedly doesn’t think about how much more steady he gets with someone helping him. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” Diego asks, or. Accuses, really. Like Five not wanting to deal with their  _ bullshit  _ is somehow a criminal offense. 

He jerks his shoulder, swatting at Diego like he had with Klaus, trying to get his hand  _ off him.  _ It doesn’t work, Diego stubbornly keeping a hold on him with his superior physical strength. Five snarls. 

“Anywhere where you two dipshits  _ aren’t.”  _ He snaps as he gives Diego the hardest stare he can muster. Diego just cocks a brow at him and huffs, and Five’s too tipsy, too sick -  _ he’s not sick! -  _ to tell if it’s annoyance or amusement. 

Either way it pisses him off even more and he gives another, useless jerk against the hold he has on Five. 

“You look like shit.” He says it matter-of-factly. Now it’s Five’s turn to cock a brow at him.

“Thanks,” Five hisses, manages to drag a sarcastic, lopsided smile to his face in response, but Diego just bodily turns him around with one hand, like it was the easiest thing in the world. 

The movement makes his vision swirl and he has to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment, fists clenching at his sides as he wills the dizziness to fade. 

“Yeah, you don’t look so good, buddy.” Klaus chimes in, slinking up off the stool with a grace that should be foreign to someone as absolutely  _ batshit  _ as him. “Bad whiskey?”

“Five, you’ve gotta stop drinking this much, you’re going to hurt yourse-”   
  
“I’m. Not.  _ Drunk. _ ” He growls out and this time he does manage to dislodge Diego’s hold on him, stumbling back to get out of arm’s reach. “I had only just started drinking when you two insufferable pricks showed up.”

“Then why’d you throw up?” Is what Klaus says. His voice is almost mocking, teasing. He thinks Five’s lying. (He’s never given them any reason to think he wouldn’t be drunk off his ass, so, Five can’t blame them.) 

It makes him freeze, casting a glare at Klaus as he tries to bring words to his mouth. Explain away getting si-  _ throwing up.  _ He ends up standing there staring daggers at Klaus for far longer than he should, the air between the three of them twisting into something stifling and awkward. 

“I guess,” Five finally says, turning towards the couch - his original goal. “That you two’s presence just upset my fragile constitution.” 

“Ouch,” Klaus says, as Five lets himself flop down onto the couch, his hand rising to his chest like he’d been wounded. Five rolls his eyes and wipes a hand across his mouth again, grimacing at the bitter taste that’s lingering in his mouth. 

He’s tempted to down the remains of his abandoned glass to try and chase away the flavor, but doesn’t, his mind turning elsewhere when Diego steps forwards, his hands at his hips. He probably thinks he’s menacing, but Five’s as threatened as if Diego was a tiny, fluffy cat. 

“You’re sick, aren’t you?” How he deduced that with his pea brain, Five doesn’t know, but it manages to get him to stiffen where he sits. Which, probably is the final nail in his coffin as Diego snorts and looks up at the ceiling. “I knew it.” 

“You don’t know shit, it’s a wonder you even tie your shoelaces in the morning,” Five snarls defensively, pushing himself up into a sitting position.

“Yeah, being a dick isn’t going to change anything, Five. It’s pretty obvious you’re sick.” Diego steps forward and lays the back of his hand to his forehead before Five can stop him. His hand is blissfully cool, which just makes him even more frustrated, smacking Diego’s hand. “You’ve got a fever. Go lay down, you’re not drinking anymore until you’re better.” 

“Like  _ hell!”  _ Five snaps, pointing a shaking finger at Diego. “You don’t get to tell me what to do! Or do I have to remind you who’s oldest, here?” 

“Yeah, yeah, old man,” Klaus rolls his eyes, waving his hand dismissively in the air. “We get it, you time traveled. But I’m with Diego on this, you need to stop drinking. Take it from me, one addict to another - piling more shit on yourself when you’re sick just makes it a whole lot worse.” 

“I’m  _ not  _ a-”

“If you’re not going to lie down, I’m more than willing to make you.” Diego cuts him off, looking down at him with his eyebrows raised, expectantly. Five’s mouth twists up into a sneer and he scoffs.

“Oh yeah, how?” A challenge, as much as it is insult. They both know nobody in the house could make him do something against his will, when he can just as easily teleport ten feet away from everyone there. 

“Alright,” Diego says, and that’s all the warning he gets before he’s being lifted up and tossed over his shoulder like he weighed less than a feather. 

The movement, followed by the sudden near-upside down position he’s put in makes his head spin and he has to fight back a rise of bile in the back of his throat. Though maybe he shouldn’t, getting thrown up on would be a good payback on Diego. 

By the time Five’s head stops swirling enough for him to open his eyes again they’re already moving, halfway through the foyer as Five stares at a cat-like smirk on Klaus’ face. Five pushes himself up by digging his hands into Diego’s back, growling, already on the verge of doing a jump when-

“If you use your powers I’ll throw that mannequin down the stairs.” White hot  _ rage  _ snaps across Five’s mind, his vision blurring through sheer fury alone as he turns his head to look up at Diego as best he can.

_ “You wouldn’t dare,”  _ He snarls, venom dripping from his words as he says it. Diego just shrugs, keeps walking. 

“Oh, he totally would, though.” Klaus supplies, helpfully, and Five shoots him a  _ look  _ he hopes is as enraged as he feels.  All it does is make Klaus shrug, putting his hands up in a ‘not-my-fault’ gesture. 

Shit. 

Fuck. 

He couldn’t risk Dolores’ safety, even if he’d rather  _ not  _ be forced to lie down for. He doesn’t know how long! He doesn’t know how long he’s going to feel like this! He doesn’t  _ want  _ to do this. Can’t afford to not be vigilant, ready to go whenever necessary. 

_ He couldn’t be sick!  _

He couldn’t risk Dolores, either. 

_ Fuck!  _

Five clenches his teeth and beats his fits as hard as he can against Diego’s back as they start going up the stairs.

_ “Fuck _ you, Diego!” He screams, throat cracking, sore. “Fuck you!”

“You’ll thank me later,” Diego tells him, and Five can say with all certainty that he really,  _ really  _ won’t.


End file.
